a scion of kings
by quicksilvering
Summary: Thorin Oakenshield had had Bilbo's loyalty from the very beginning.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I own nothing from LOTR or the Hobbit. And I am INSANELY excited for the third Hobbit movie to come out next year. And yet dreading it as well. Sigh.**

**Quick one-shot about Bilbo Baggins and Thorin Oakenshield.**

It wasn't the Wizard who had persuaded Bilbo Baggins to leave his comfortable hobbit-hole and journey into the dangerous unknown with only thirteen dwarves and an old man for company.

It wasn't the lure of adventure and the promise to see the Elves.

It wasn't even an appeal to his Tookish side.

Bilbo Baggins could point to the exact moment when he had decided to join these dwarves on their Quest to retake their homeland.

It was when Thorin Oakenshield walked through his front door.

Bilbo had known who he was, of course. He did read after all, and the name of the exiled king under the mountain was fairly well-known to him. Dwarves occasionally passed through Hobbiton, travelling from Ered Luin to the Iron Hills, and they spoke of their king often.

They spoke of him with pride and awe and respect, and Bilbo could understand why after only a split second in Thorin's presence.

The dwarf who walked through his door was tall; well over five feet.

He was handsome; dark of hair, bright of eye, with clear, even features and a strong warrior's physique.

But it was none of these things that made Bilbo understand who Thorin Oakenshield actually was. Or rather it was a combination of all of these things on top of several others, which made Bilbo see who Thorin was. For Thorin was of the Line of Durin, the eldest and most royal of all the seven houses of the dwarves, and that lineage infused every particle of the his being.

The dwarf-lord who walk through Bilbo Baggins' front door was regal and commanding and, above all, in absolute control of both himself and others. He knew who he was. His clear, level gaze as he questioned Bilbo about his credentials, and greeted his kinsmen, and spoke to Gandalf, were all evidence of that. His silence and stillness spoke of an ability to observe, correctly, before making a decision. The piercing intelligence of his gaze spoke of a well-read, well-lived life.

The stern set of his mouth spoke of deprivation and determination.

The wry humor found in his words, the passion and elocution of his speech, the electricity of his personality, spoke of a leader; a great leader.

He did not hide who he was, this king of kings, but neither was he boastful. He did not demand obeisance from the others, but Bilbo saw instantly how they deferred to him, how even Gandalf was respectful in his presence.

There was no fear in their devotion, no binding of oaths and reluctant servitude. Every single person in this house was here because they were absolutely loyal to Thorin Oakenshield, and they were loyal because he was a person one should be loyal _to. _

How to explain charisma and greatness to those that were not there to witness it?

Bilbo would struggle with such a thing when it came time to write his book. He had struggled understanding such a concept when he read the histories of the First Age. Why? What was it about some people that caused others to follow them without a second's hesitation? What was it that inspired someone to die for someone else based on loyalty alone?

Friendship he understood, but this strange, archaic notion of royalty, of kingliness, was anathema to a Hobbit's way of thinking. Hobbit's elected their own Mayors, and if the Took and the Master of Buckland were inherited titles, well, they were all but ceremonial anyway. Used for settling petty disputes among extended family members and little else.

But kingliness…..

Bilbo had never expected to meet anyway who inhabited that word quite like Thorin Oakenshield did. Here was a dwarf who was a lord not only of his own people, but could command the respect of Elves and Men alike.

And, apparently, of Hobbits as well.

"So this is the Hobbit?" he had asked, rhetorically, after stepping through the round hobbit doorway. There was silence in Bilbo's foyer as the dwarves and Gandalf watched their leader circle the him. Bilbo unconsciously straightened up under the king's regard.

"Tell me, Mr. Baggins, have do done much fighting?"

"Excuse me?"

"What's your weapon of choice: axe or sword?" His voice was deep and calm and commanding.

Bilbo's answer, a mixture of bluster and embarrassment, would haunt him until the end of his days. He never knew how his stumbling, his unconscious and awkward shifting in position, the faltering in his voice as his accent changed to meet the elegant, precise tones of the exiled-king, spoke more than any perfectly executed words ever could.

Bilbo Baggins had found his Captain – and he would follow him anywhere.

Bilbo himself, of course, did not realize the pivotal nature of this moment until months later when, standing by the bier of a king, he looked down at his still face and realized that this was one journey he could not follow him on.

At least not now. Not yet.

**Note: What did you think? Should I write more Bilbo & Thorin? I love them so much. Their dynamic reminds me a bit of Legolas & Aragorn from Lord of the Rings.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I own nothing from The Hobbit or the LOTR. Thorin's journey during these two films has been one of the best parts of the entire series for me. His character is so complex, so broken, so strong, and so noble. His fear of the madness that befell both his father and his grandfather is so humanizing and tragic. That dwarf ring he wears is definitely twisting his mind, as is the fact that the One Ring is so close to him and probably egging it on. At least, that's my theory.**

**So here is a snippet of Thorin's thoughts as he stands on the slopes of Erebor and tells Balin that he will not go into the mountain to help Bilbo.**

_of friendship and madness and dragon fire_

It was Balin's disappointment that pierced through Thorin's cold logic first. He had been so sure that this was the right course of action – the life of one _could not _be worth more than the success of their Quest. He needed that jewel, the Arkenstone, and he needed it fast. He needed the legitimacy it would bestow. He needed to unite the Seven Houses of the Dwarves.

There was something coming. Something far worse than even Smaug, Last of the Great Dragons. He could feel it in his bones.

It was why Gandalf had left them. It was why they had been dogged, every step of the way here, by wargs and orcs and goblins. It was why he had been targeted for assassination for months now.

Someone, or something, wanted the line of Durin very, very dead. They were after him, and they were after his nephews. He thanked the Maker that his sister, Dis, was safe in their halls in the Blue Mountains. She, at least, should be spared from what was coming. His cousin, Dain, was well-guarded in the Iron Hills to the north. He, too, would not share this urgency, this need, as though the sands of time were fast running out.

He knew that Gandalf shared his suspicions about the shadow that lurked in Dul Guldur, the sorcerer that men called the Necromancer.

But this was no human magician, no mere mortal dabbling in powers he or she could not understand or control. This was the Great Enemy himself. This was the Master of Durin's Bane; that foul flame and shadow creature who had murdered his ancestor and defiled the sacred Halls of Khazad-Dum.

This was the one that Elves and Men called 'Sauron.'

And he was making his move once more.

Men were weak, divided, leaderless. They were no threat to him.

Elves were well-guarded, protected in their isolated realms and halls, by magic and enchantment. But they did not have the numbers that they had possessed during the First and Second Ages. They could be dealt with later.

It was to the Dwarves that Sauron was turning his machinations upon first. It was against the Line of Durin that he was making his first move; for Thorin Oakenshield was the wild card. And even gods did not like puny mortal forces they could not predict.

Thorin suspected this; in fact, he was almost sure of it. He knew that _that _was the reason Gandalf had urged his father, and then him, upon this Quest. _That _was the reason that Elrond of Rivendell, and that strange, fey Elven Queen, had agreed with Gandalf and let them go without pursuit, despite the nay-saying of the Wizard in white.

And _that _was the reason he needed that Arkenstone.

Smaug had to be dealt with, and for that he needed an army of Dwarves. He needed the full might of Durin's Folk.

Azog the Defiler, and his son, Bolg, were Orc commanders. The orcs were multiplying; they had all but overrun the lands east of the Misty Mountains. The forest of Mirkwoord was growing in darkness, despite the efforts of Tranduil's people.

Sauron was coming, and he was coming soon.

So he needed that Arkenstone.

And Bilbo Baggins was the only one who had a chance in all of Khazad-dum of getting it.

But Balin was looking at him like he had looked at his grandfather, in the days before the dragon came; as though he did not know him anymore.

He tried to explain, but he knew his voice was overly harsh, confrontational, as though all along the only one he was trying to convince was himself. "I will not risk this quest for the life of one…burglar."

He knew Balin didn't buy it. Not even for a second. "Bilbo," Balin said, sadly but firmly. "His name is Bilbo."

It was an echo, an echo of something Bilbo had said himself when Dwalin had suggested throwing the riverman, Bard, over the side of his own boat.

"Bard," Bilbo had said, sounding mildly fed up with the lot of them. "His name is Bard." As though, already, the man was more than just another face, as though Bilbo was already sympathizing with him; trying to understand his story.

And Bilbo had been right in trying to understand, in being willing to trust, that man, for Bard had indeed gotten them into Lake Town. He had indeed fulfilled his promise; had clothed them and attempted to give them weapons. And when it looked like Thorin and his Quest would bring harm to his people, he had stood before the townsfolk without fear and declared a stanch that no one had agreed with. He had been mocked, yet still he stood firm, and denied Thorin not out of greed or pettiness, but out of a sincere compassion for the suffering of others; a suffering he did not want Thorin's Quest to bring down upon them.

Thorin had a lingering suspicion that his nephews, left behind at Lake Town for their own protection, would still find a welcome in Bard's house for all the other man's disagreement with Thorin himself.

A descendent of nobility, a king of men, Bard had turned out to be, underneath that grim and tatty exterior. And Thorin had recognized a kindred spirit on the steps of the Master's house, a man who would do anything for the well-being of his people.

And Bilbo had seen it first. Or at least suspected it. It was the hobbit's compassion for others that had led him to see that; that same compassion which had caused him to stick with a band of dwarves he had nothing in common with, and no reason to help. That same compassion which had caused him to now look at Thorin with true loyalty in his eyes.

And Balin had trusted Bilbo. Trusted his wisdom and his instincts. Had backed him up with the other dwarves, even against Dwalin, his own brother.

Balin had always been the wisest of them.

And here he was, echoing Bilbo's words, trying to bring them back to Thorin in a way that would break through….something.

Thorin felt an icy cold shiver make its way down his back that had nothing to do with the advent of nighttime, and everything to do with his own fears.

Balin thought he, Thorin, needed a reminder of his own compassion, of his own…humanity, was what men called it. There was no word for it among dwarves. He needed a reminder of what it meant to be Thorin Oakenshield.

Thorin Oakenshield would not sit here, cowering on a mountainside, hiding from a dragon, while a friend was inside braving untold dangers alone. Thorin Oakenshield cared more for his people than any trinket mined by the hands of the Maker's children. Thorin Oakenshield was a warrior, a king, before he was a manipulator that would play with the lives of others as though they were pieces on a game board.

The memory came to him then of Bilbo, small and alone and utterly without training, tackling an orc and standing between Thorin and Azog himself.

And then Thorin was running, sword out in his hands, into the fire, into the depths of the mountain, a terrible fear in his heart that he was already too late.

He was afraid that Bilbo had died, alone, facing that dragon, as Thorin would have died, alone, facing Azog had it not been for his friend.

Thorin hurtled out of one of the side hallways and into the vast treasure rooms of Erebor. Faint wisps of fire still curled in the air, a hot wind like the inside of a furnace blew, and smoke stung his eyes. There was no sign of Bilbo.

For a moment, just a moment, Thorin was sure that everything was lost – his friend, his sanity, his chance to unite his people and save them all. Then he heard a noise and turned to see Bilbo taking the stairs two at a time. He was unharmed, not even singed.

Thorin breathed a sigh of relief.

Bilbo quickly exclaimed that Smaug was right behind him, but Thorin could not help but ask if Bilbo had recovered the Arkenstone. It was vital, it was absolutely necessary, that Thorin had that stone. He could not leave these caverns without it.

Bilbo's answer was evasive, suspicious. He would not look Thorin in the eye as he tried to walk past him. Without conscious though, without Thorin telling his arm to do so, his sword swung up to block Bilbo's path. He fixed his eyes upon the hobbit's face. There was something shifty there, something not right.

The hobbit was lying to him.

The burglar was attempting to make off with what was rightfully Thorin's.

He was a liar and a sneak, that hobbit

And then, some fear in the hobbit's eyes, some spark of stubbornness and refusal to back down despite the sword pointed at him, caused Thorin to hesitate.

Once again he recognized that look, as though Bilbo were attempting to gauge Thorin's mood, hesitant to say anything, but absolutely unwilling to do anything else than stick it through. He'd worn such a look in the House of Elrond, as they had stood and listened to Master Elrond's fears for Thorin, his reason why he feared to condone Gandalf's Quest to retake the Lonely Mountain.

Bilbo had looked back at Thorin than, a quick, incisive glance, as though he could see, with one look, exactly what Thorin was afraid of. As though he could see exactly who Thorin was, underneath all the kingly aura and fighting spirit.

He was giving him that look now, trying to find Thorin underneath the dwarf now pointing a weapon at him.

And then Thorin was once again seeing Bilbo throw himself upon an orc, and standing, alone and afraid, between Azog the Defiler and the dwarf king he had decided to be loyal to. And Balin's voice was whispering in his ears, _Bilbo. His name is Bilbo._

Thorin's sword wavered. He looked, really looked, at….Bilbo…..

…..who wasn't looking at him anymore. Thorin turned his head slowly, knowing what he would see. Smaug, huge and terrible, was making his way around a corner, and straight towards them both.

Without conscious thought, Thorin turned and placed himself between Bilbo and the dragon. With a roar, Dwalin, Balin and the rest came rushing out to stand beside him. The dragon raced towards them, scales turning red as the fire built. "Run!" And they jumped as the fire spread over them.

_Bilbo, _he chanted in his mind. _His name is Bilbo. His name is Bilbo._

Thorin shook his flaming outer tunic off. "Let's go," he commanded. They were going to get out this. They could deal with finding the Arkenstone later, once they'd regrouped, came up with a plan of attack.

But there was no escape this time. All the exits were sealed against them.

Thorin could feel the despair building behind him, as they beheld the bodies of his fallen kin. He could taste the futility of his actions as a bitter tang upon his tongue. He thrust those thoughts aside, vicious, absolutely furious with himself for everything that had happened on this day.

But he would deal with all that later.

He had faced a Balrog in his youth, with Ellie by his side it was true. But he had lived to tell the tale. He would not die, here, at the hands of a petty dragon.

"We could try to reach the mines," Balin said. "Might last a few days."

"No." Thorin walked forwards, between the bodies of those he had failed to protect, thinking. He needed a plan, and he needed it fast. "I will not die like this, cowering, clawing for breath." He turned to face them. "We make for the Forges."

"He'll see us," Dwalin disagreed. "Sure as death."

"Not if we split up." At Bilbo's fierce glance, he knew that the hobbit would stay with him. Would not leave his side. Bilbo's glance was not hopeless, though he said nothing.

"Thorin, we'll never make it." Balin was said, but firm. Still hopeless.

But Thorin knew there was hope. There was always hope. Hadn't someone said that to him once? He could not remember in this moment. He just knew that here, now, he was right where he was supposed to be. Doing what he was supposed to be doing. This was going to work.

"Some of us might," he said, gently, to all of them. Then, commanding, "Lead him to the Forges. We kill the dragon." As he should have done all those years ago. As he had dreamed of doing every night since. "If this is to end in _fire, _then we will all burn together," he promised them.

Smaug would not escape him a second time.

**Notes: And that's why Thorin says Bilbo's name all throughout their fight with Smaug. It is a reminder to himself to remain Thorin Oakenshield.**


End file.
